


Lavina

by SetAblaze



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Avalanches, Fluff, Frostback Mountains, Implied Sexual Content, M/M, Near Death, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-10
Updated: 2018-05-03
Packaged: 2019-04-16 00:26:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14152665
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SetAblaze/pseuds/SetAblaze
Summary: Whilst skiing during a trip in the Frostback Mountains, Dorian gets caught in an avalanche. The Iron Bull is the rescuer who finds him.





	1. Voyage Voyage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been too long since I last wrote. I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'm now on Tumblr as labhra-setablaze, so feel free to say hi or leave a suggestion! This chapter is named after the song Voyage Voyage by Desireless, don't know why but listening to it really helped with writing this.

Dorian was close to reaching the end of the couloir when it happened. Whilst the upper section was steep and tight, majority of the snow being breaking crust and sun-affected slush; the bottom half was open and full of fresh powder, and at that time Dorian was too focused on the ease of it all to notice anything else.

He should’ve known something was off as soon as he felt the wind pick up at the peak. It was stupid to pick a slope on the leeward side in those conditions. He should’ve seen the avalanche threat for what it was and gone back the way he came.

Naturally, hindsight was of little help to Dorian as he looked over his shoulder and watched the entire mountainside crack behind him.

It caught him in seconds, lifting him bodily from his skis to the top of the snowpack and quickly burying the slope beneath him. He rolled over gasping and wheezing, laying there on his back as the impact had knocked the wind out of his lungs. Above the thundering crumble of snow, the bellow of wood splintering rang out and Dorian looked to see trees in front of him snap in two.

For half a minute he floated atop the snowslide as it barrelled down the Frostback Mountains. Around him the snow, ice, rock and wood crashed like ocean waves, and all Dorian could do was simply marvel at it, too shocked in that moment to feel fear. He looked down and saw the valley stretch out before him, all mountain peaks and distant trees, and quickly he realised where the avalanche was headed, where _he_ was headed. _I’m going under_ , he thought, _right down to the bottom._

He was pushed and taken into the darkness, where the power of the frozen deluge above held his every muscle and sinew in a tight grip. It was like he was set in concrete, unable to move in the slightest. Beneath tons of snow and ice, panic and adrenaline began to flood his body and overwhelm him. Dorian didn’t fear death, but he didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to get ripped apart, he didn’t want to be crushed, and he _really_ didn’t want the avalanche to stop, not while he was under it.

But the avalanche began to slow, so Dorian had no choice but to prepare for the worst. He supposed that it would be appropriate for his life to flash before his eyes, but his mind simply went blank. He didn’t lose consciousness, but he dazed in and out of awareness as the avalanche’s pace began to ease, and all at once Dorian felt the weight that had pinned him down suddenly lift, and within moments he was back in the light of day.

He must’ve popped out of the toe of the avalanche somehow, and with the sun glaring up from the snow’s reflection, Dorian was glad to see his goggles were still intact, as it would’ve been blinding otherwise. He sucked in a breath through his teeth and nearly choked on it. He was burning yet numb; his lungs didn’t know what to do with all of that fresh air.

With a groan he lifted his head. He was in one piece, no noticeable breaks or funny angles for his legs and arms; just lightly covered in snow and hurting all over. _That’s good_ , he thought as he flopped back down.

The silence of the air around him was broken by the sound of running motors, distant but getting closer.

“…what class do you think that one was?” a voice asked some metres away after the motors went silent. Dorian then heard a whine, but not from that person.

“- Quiet, Pascal. Sorry, Bull, what?”

“I said it’s got to be class three”, another voice replied, lower and deeper, “Definitely class three at least.”

With effort, Dorian propped himself up on his elbows. He grunted as his arms shook under the weight.

Something fuzzy pressed against his cheek and snuffled right into his ear. Groaning loudly, Dorian reached out to push it away, but his gloved hand collided with a solid mass of muscle and fur, refusing to budge. Dorian’s brain worked slowly, but upon sitting up properly his foggy mind could soon tell that the nuisance in question was a dog. A black and white mabari, in fact, that was very big and _very_ _warm_ as it proceeded to drape itself over his lap.

It seemed rather pleased with itself, thumping its thick tail on the ground a few times and letting out a series of… happy groans? Observing the creature act as his blanket, Dorian was going to assume it was friendly. He lifted his hand and offered it to the hound, reaching out slowly. It stared intently, tiny rolls around its eyes squishing together as if pondering. The half-formed frown vanished quickly, however, as it brought it’s face to Dorian’s hand, tail thumping once again. Dorian had imagined that it would sniff him, but instead the dog pushed its snout into his palm and stayed there. _Oh,_ he mused as it began to nuzzle _, alright then._

The voices returned.

“I heard Pascal over here, Cullen”, the deep one said, “Oh shit,” they cursed, “ _look_.”

“I see him, Bull”, the other replied, “I see him.”

Dorian looked up and saw two men making their way towards him from the tree line, a human and a qunari. They wore thick red snow jackets, the Inquisition’s symbol that was plastered all around Skyhold and Haven stitched on their chest pockets. _Mountain rescue,_ Dorian realised.

The qunari reached him first. He was massive, ridiculously so. He lumbered his way to Dorian much like how a tree would if it grew shoulder length horns. _And lost an eye_ , Dorian amended quickly as the man’s face, and subsequently his ornate eyepatch, came into view as he knelt down beside him.

“Hey there, Big Guy”, he said, “How are you feeling? You doing okay?”

“I feel… a bit like I’ve been hit by a druffalo,” Dorian answered, his throat rasping out the words, “but I’m otherwise fine.”

“No breaks?”

“No breaks,” he replied, “just really sore.”

“I bet. You had the whole slope come down on you, after all.”

Dorian paused at that, “You saw?” he asked.

The qunari nodded, “Yeah, I saw. We both did”, he answered, pointing to the man coming up behind him. He scratched the stubble lining his chin, “Cullen and I …weren’t expecting to find you down here, honestly”, he said.

Dorian frowned, “Oh?”

Cullen reached the two of them and stood at Dorian’s feet, “The avalanche was class three, most don’t survive class one.”

Dorian stopped frowning then, “Oh…”, he said.

“Yup”, replied the qunari.

His lone eye seemed to consider Dorian for a moment. Pale, warm and green, his gaze was as soft as it was striking. It flooded Dorian with sensation, waves of it bubbling and frothing behind his sternum in electric pinpricks.

_Well,_ Dorian noted, _that’s something._

Cullen spoke up, “Bull, I called Ellana”, he told the qunari, Dorian then noticing the faint glow of a sending crystal in his hand, “She’s got transport to the hospital ready at the Haven Centre, she just needs to know if we’ll be needing a pick-up from here.”

“How ‘bout it, Big Guy?” the qunari, Bull, asked Dorian, “You think you can stand?”

“Not with this dog on me, no”, said Dorian, “But other than that? I think I can manage.”

Bull hummed affirmably, “Alright. Pascal, up.”

Pascal stopped burrowing into Dorian’s hand and got up, giving Dorian’s face a pig-like snuffle at his nose before trotting off to Cullen. _Such an odd dog_ , Dorian remarked to himself, _but kaffas, did he make a good blanket_.

“We won’t be needing the pick-up, Cullen”, said Bull, “We’ll take the pass to Penitent’s Crossing, it’s a smoother ride. Just tell Boss to wait for us there.”

The Fereldan nodded, turning away to murmur into the crystal. Bull turned back to Dorian.

“You got a name, Big Guy?”

 “What?”, Dorian said dazedly, having being distracted by the man’s horns, “Oh! Of course. Dorian Pavus.”

“Alright then,” smiled Bull, “Nice to meet you, Dorian.”

He wrapped an arm under Dorian’s shoulders, lifting him from the snow and supporting his weight as Dorian stood. He wasn’t a small by human standards, it was strange to feel so small. The sensations from before then returned at full force.

_Oh dear,_ Dorian lamented as they made their way to the snowmobiles, _that really is something._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dorian's experience of the avalanche was based off Jimmy Chin's survival of a class 3 avalanche in the Rocky Mountains. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OF696aP0SUI
> 
> The couloir that Dorian was skiing is based off the Sliver Couloir in the Rocky Mountains in particular.
> 
> I went with the Canadian avalanche classing system, which is measured by the amount of devastation it causes and how far down the mountain it goes.
> 
> Cullen's mabari, Pascal, is based off the rescue habits of a St. Bernard. They're not used for mountain rescue anymore (although their close cousin, the Newfoundland, is still used for water rescue), and I wanted to give a big shout out to the original avalanche rescuers. Pascal is otherwise based off my mastiff, weird noises and all.


	2. Run and Jump on Your Solitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this taking so long. I wrote over double the length of chapter 1, and for consistency in length and quality I've decided to cut a decent chunk, which shall appear in the next one instead. This chapter is named after Vashti Bunyan's song "I Want to Walk Around in Your Mind Someday", because it helped with writing, and because I can't come up with original titles apparently. 
> 
> Big shout out to moonscars for putting up with me for the duration of this. 
> 
> Hope you all enjoy, if you have any suggestions for things you'd like to see (this fic or otherwise), then ask away on my tumblr: https://labhra-setablaze.tumblr.com/

There was peace but no quiet at Skyhold Hospital. The mana of healing magic buzzed in the air and the sound of squeaking shoes echoed through the walls to Dorian’s room. He stared at the ceiling as he waited, examining the green poly-styrene tiles. It wasn’t much to look at; but laying there boneless from the healer’s ministrations he continued gazing with little thought.

The calm broke, shattering as loud, brash and hurried steps stomped down the corridor. Dorian recognised them with barely enough time to wipe off his grin before the door swung open.

Kaaras Adaar looked a mess, panting as he gripped an oversized duffel bag. Locks of the hornless Inquisitor’s hair, black with streaks of white, had fallen loose from his braid and were spilling over his shoulders. He kicked the door shut and leant against it. He stood there catching his breath, before finally raising his mismatched eyes of violet and blue to Dorian.

“Sorry I wasn’t here sooner”, he wheezed.

“Catching up on some beauty sleep, were you?”, Dorian smirked.

 “No”, said Adaar, because he wasn’t that sort of man. He was the kind of man who was late because he’d been working; the kind of man who never acknowledged sarcasm, “I was getting some things. For when you get out.”

He gestured to the bag and heaved it onto the nearby dresser. Military design, the bag was a relic of his days with the Valo-Kas, a mercenary band lasting since the ninth age. The poor thing looked full to bursting.

“ _Some?_ ”, Dorian parroted.

“Shut up”, replied Kaaras, blowing away the strand of hair that tickled his nose, “You’re not allowed to tease.”

“Am I not?”, Dorian chuckled.

“No,” he huffed, tying up his hair properly, “you’re absolutely not. Last time I checked, you were supposed to be on holiday, catching a month’s break to settle into Skyhold before starting work at the library. Almost getting killed is not what I’d call relaxing.”

Dorian hummed, “Yes”, he said, after a thought, “Relaxing is far from how I’d describe the experience.”

“Were you scared?”, Kaaras asked hesitantly as he brought over a chair.

“Maybe?”, Dorian answered, “I think I was at some point; but I don’t perceive what happened as a hurt, not emotionally.”

Adaar sat himself beside the bed, taking off his winter jacket and leaning on his elbows next to Dorian’s legs, “Maybe it just hasn’t hit you yet?”, he offered.

“You might be right”, Dorian replied, “The healer said it depends on the individual; I’ll just have to wait and see.”

Kaaras said nothing and looked at Dorian. His face was tight, his jaw was clenched. Catching the afternoon light that spilled through the window, his violet eye glistened with moisture. It was like a marble left outside and collecting dew in the morning. The likeness was much too sentimental for Dorian; the realisation that followed even more so.

Dorian wasn’t frightened by what happened but Kaaras certainly was. Hits from the Ben-Hassrath, missions gone south, and raids from other mercenary bands all took the Inquisitor’s friends over the years. It was something he had hoped to escape from, something he clearly didn’t want to revisit, and though Dorian couldn’t change what happened, he wished he had recognised Adaar’s worry sooner.

With a nod at this new understanding he stretched out his arm to Kaaras, barely reaching him. He patted Adaar’s forearm with his fingetips, speaking softly.

“Don’t be upset”, he said, “Handsome though you are, you’re such an ugly crier.”

Adaar chortled, shaking the bed with it. He rubbed his eyes, dabbing the corners with the heel of his palm, “Screw you”, he said, gently swatting Dorian away.

Dorian hummed a laugh back, letting the silence hang over them afterwards. Buzzing mana and squeaking shoes again; in the presence of the ambience and his friend, the weight of reality began to settle heavy and wholesome, pressing down at Dorian’s centre.

One thing Dorian wasn’t told about near death experiences was how relieving it was to feel normal afterwards.

-

But true normalcy would take time he realised, once home the next day.

Healing spells had lost their effectiveness and the aches returned. Magic could do wonders, but only if there was something to actually heal. No cuts, no bruises, no breaks to speak of; there was nothing more to be done. To say Dorian was sore was severely lacking: his body felt like a raw nerve, poked and prodded with every move.

He slept poorly that night. A long but light eight-hour rest was spent in a semi-conscious state. Caught between waking discomfort and the instinctual pull to rest; thoughts jumped from one abyss to another, connecting dots between jumbled ideas and forgotten in an instant. A mental torture brought about by a physical one, Dorian was acutely aware of everything and yet nothing. It was disorientating.

But it _would_ end, Dorian assured himself upon waking properly. It was just before dawn, he’d get his prescribed salves in a few hours. A few more hours and he’d feel better; a few more hours and he could feel normal again, like he did at the hospital; just a few more hours, if he was patient.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and sat up, swinging his legs off the bed. Spreading out across the bedroom carpet, flashes of pain shot through his feet. He cursed, sharp and swift, the vowels almost cut out entirely as he rose up and out from underneath the covers.

He felt small in a way he hadn’t before, so sensitive to every sensation it was near infantile. Staggering to the ensuite bathroom was like learning to walk on frozen legs that were slowly thawing out; bitter cold and searing heat; because hot metal rods were in the places where bones should be.

He combed his hair and moustache with his fingers thereabouts into their desired shape, he splashed his face with some warm water, he brushed his teeth.

Getting dressed was a sad affair. He liked the jeans but the jumper was as ugly as it was warm. Mostly acrylic and a just a bit woollen, it was knitted in a fisherman’s rib stitch and in a garish shade known as ‘oatmeal’. He didn’t care that it was a housewarming gift. If not for its softness and how well it outlined his muscular frame; Dorian would’ve burned the blighted thing as soon as Adaar gave it.

Was he disappointed in himself? Naturally. But he was comfortable, he had no intention of staying out, and he already scoffed at his reflection in penance, so what did it matter?

He had some toast and coffee and spent the remaining time before the apothecary opened with light reading and overlooking his emails. The most recent ones were from Josephine Montilyet regarding his upcoming role as Skyhold’s new library director, as well as well-wishes for a speedy recovery. That made Dorian smile somewhat.

As much as Dorian looked forward to working with her, he still found it odd that the Inquisition’s chief diplomat and ambassador was involved in the HR department. Dorian had once asked Kaaras about it. He was told that the Antivan was quite the workaholic, and rather enjoyed the workload. That didn’t explain anything at all, but he wasn’t given another explanation since.

The nearby apothecary was small. Products were cramped together on shelves which also had just as much space between them. Aside from the staff, the business was empty - a small blessing for Dorian in his current state. An elven woman by the name of Elan greeted him at the front counter, giving him directions to the prescription area.

“Just at the back,” she said, giving a quick smile and tucking a lock of her red hair behind her ear, “Adan will check that out for you.”

Dorian nodded with some thanks and attempted to squeeze passed the aisles. He was half worried he’d knock over something. When Adan spotted him, it was all standard procedure; the usual questions of what his script was, whether it was his first time being prescribed it and if he knew how to apply it. He was rather cranky, no point sugar-coating it; but as he explained how to use the salve most effectively, he was straightforward and clear spoken. As far as Dorian was concerned, being helpful was better than putting on a friendly face.

“Right”, Adan said, “It’ll be a fifteen-minute wait, which will mostly be me making sure that whatever you get doesn’t kill you.”

Dorian raised a brow.

“Some people have trouble understanding what apothecaries _actually do_ ”, he explained, “So to clarify: don’t put up bad internet reviews that threaten the business because my staff and I are doing exactly what our four-year degrees taught us, alright?”

Dorian shrugged, “Fair enough”, he said.

Adan just stared. Only for a second; but the gears in his head were turning, trying to figure something out. What exactly that something was, Dorian could only guess. As soon as the second had passed, however; the strangeness passed too, and with that Adan softened, ostensibly placated, earning Dorian a half-smile before turning to his work.

Whatever test that was, Dorian believed he passed it.

He went to take a seat. Spacious but not elegant, the waiting area was an improvement from the rest of the apothecary. The chairs were comfortable, upright, and curved at the back with adequate padding. It didn’t lessen the pain but it was a relief regardless, so Dorian was thankful.

Magazines were neatly arranged on a cherry wood table beside him, most of them being Thedas Geographic. He picked up one, which was a fairly recent edition investigating the influence of a ninth age draconologist called Frederic of Serault on modern studies of dragons and wyverns.

Dorian wasn’t one for dragons personally, but with an inward shrug he had to admit it was an interesting read. He came to a description of Frederic’s meetings with Magister Zaldereon Antonidas, documented in a series of letters, when the door chimed open. He noticed the low timber of the voice first, but the horns that came after were unmistakable. He froze.

_Kaffas, but I am a fool._

It wasn’t as if Dorian didn’t want to see him; rather the opposite actually. The problem was the timing. Though he hadn’t thought on it much, Dorian had hoped to thank him and the others; Cullen, Pascal, and the elf that helped with the transport; properly. But no; Dorian had to meet his rescuer looking his absolute worst, because of course he did.

To Bull’s credit, he didn’t appear to have expected Dorian either. Fully appearing in the waiting area wearing a bright orange fleece jacket with cargo shorts and hiking boots, he hesitated as soon as he spotted the altus sitting in the corner.

Whatever reservations he had quickly faded, however, as a tooth-splitting grin grew across his face.

“Hey, Big Guy”, he beamed, “Out of the hospital so soon, feeling better already?”

“Worse actually”, Dorian grumbled. Realising that his tone might not leave the best impression, he amended, “The healers were good but you can’t exactly _fix_ being sore.”

Bull sat on the chair to Dorian’s right, stretching out his legs, “Welcome to the club”, he said, rubbing at the tendons along his calves.

It was then that Dorian noticed Bull’s brace, starting at his ankle and ending just above his knee, “That looks rather serious”, Dorian commented.

“Pfft, nah”, Bull replied, brushing off Dorian’s concern, “The leg’s been busted for ages. I just tripped and busted it some more.”

“Such an eloquent way to put it”, Dorian responded.

Elan came by, “Sorry to take so long, Bull”, she said, “I’ll go and get your script ready now.”

“All good”, he replied, “Data entry ain’t really my thing either.”

She sing-songed a small chuckle as she joined Adan behind the counter. Greeting her with a short nod, Adan then looked up to Bull.

“You’re back. And you haven’t lost anything else this time.”

It was then, much like the leg brace, that Dorian noticed his fingers. Or lack thereof.

“One eye, a bum leg, missing fingertips, and a sizeable collection of scars” _,_ Dorian listed in horror, “Maker,” he muttered, “how are you still standing?”

Bull shrugged, “It’s not a cake-walk, but I manage.”

“You could’ve fooled me; you seem rather jovial about it."

Bull just laughed.

Somehow over the next few minutes they were able to have a conversation. What they talked about specifically, Dorian was already forgetting, even as he spoke. His thoughts were driven elsewhere, on things like how Bull wearing orange and green was so awful it made Dorian’s eyes hurt; like how the only stylish thing on him was his eyepatch; like how despite having the worst appearance in all of Thedas, Dorian had never seen anyone more fascinating.

And there was Dorian, wearing a jumper the colour of Maker-damned porridge.

“Oh yeah”, Bull said at last, “You _definitely_ need get some physical exercise or something.”

_What._

“I beg your pardon?”, Dorian asked.

“Like yoga, or swimming”, he added.

Dorian tensed. He hoped for Bull’s sake that he wasn’t implying anything less than savoury about Dorian’s appearance, “And why would I do that?”, he asked.

Bull raised his single brow, as if the answer were obvious, “To help speed the recovery; you know, rehab.”

“Oh”, Dorian said simply, relieved and guilty, “I suppose that would help, yes.”

If Bull saw Dorian flush, he didn’t mention it, “Well,” he said, “you’ll want to rest first. Take it easy for a week before you start. You’ll be sore otherwise.”

 _I bet you have that effect on people,_ Dorian noted, then thinking, _Maker, I hope I didn’t say that out loud_.

Adan then came out, “Alright, Pavus, here’s your script. Just follow the instructions and whatever you do, _do not eat it_ ”, he said, darting his eyes over to Bull even as he faced Dorian.

“Hey”, Bull called out, “I drank a poultice _one time_. Cut me some slack.”

Adan hmphed, unconvinced, and motioned for Dorian to follow him to the till. _Ah,_ Dorian deflated. The reunion; however disastrous it was for his pride, had come to a close.

“Well”, Dorian said as he got up, “It’s been good talking with you, with any hope I’ll feel less miserable tomorrow.”

Bull smiled, his crow’s feet crinkling ever so slightly, “See you”, he said.

 _Unlikely,_ Dorian lamented as he smiled back; because really, this whole thing was just so unfair.

-

Adaar came over that night, ingredients for dinner in hand. He just found a new Antivan recipe, he said, and needed a second opinion. Whilst he knew that wasn’t a lie, Dorian _also_ knew that Adaar was a fine cook, and suspected that his friend came over so he could check up on him. It was a rather dishonest thing for someone like Adaar, but Dorian thought it was sweet, really.

Adaar had just added the onion and garlic to the pan, putting the cover back on to allow it to sweat. Dorian had no idea who chose the verbs in cooking, but he was certain that they were insane.

“Adaar,”, Dorian began as the Vashoth peeled the tomatoes, “I’ve come to realise that my vast intelligence does not, in fact, stop me from being an idiot.”

Adaar sliced the red capsicum he deseeded earlier, “You’re overreacting, Dorian.”

“I wrongly assumed that my rescuer was calling me fat, Kaaras”

Kaaras chuckled, “That _is_ hilarious, but I wouldn’t worry. Iron Bull isn’t the kind of guy to think less of someone over a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, you’re quite right”, Dorian groaned, eyes rolling, “There’s no way he could think less of me if he doesn’t think about me in the first place.”, he paused, going over what he heard, “Wait… _Iron Bull_? Kaaras, do you know him?”

Adaar was positively snickering, “Skyhold Search and Rescue is part of the Inquisition, Dorian. He’s technically my employee, just like you”, he then took a pause himself, before childish joy broke out on his face, “And that means you two are co-workers.”

“Oh, very funny,” said Dorian, “but that doesn’t explain why you call him ‘Iron Bull’.”

Kaaras took out a small, glass measuring bowl and added a few tablespoons of chicken stock, “Well,” he said as he added some saffron, “maybe you should ask him when you see him again.”

“ _If_ I see him again”, Dorian reminded him.

“No, _when_ ”, Adaar maintained, before handing over the bowl, “Now use those magic fingers and heat this up will you? Don’t make it too hot.”

Dorian scoffed, but took the bowl regardless, “Your manners,” he simply stated, “are the worst.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you've probably noticed that I've been not so modern with a few things in this fic, e.g: calling a pharmacy/chemist an apothecary. This is deliberate, because I absolutely love the idea of a fully integrated fantasy world in a modern day setting. The Inquisition is akin to a smaller United Nations and Red Cross fusion. They provide all of Skyhold and Haven's public services, like the library, rescue services, hospital, and so on.  
> The recipe Adaar was making is aracena chicken with chickpeas. Try it; it's great.


End file.
